Yesterday I saw a teaser on the news for a segment about a guy who reveals the identity of his favorite child in a blog. (Shit I've revealed all sorts of quirky sexual fantasies in my blog; how come I've never been on the Today Show?) Anyway, I figured the story wasn't worth waiting for so I tuned out and went back to pondering more important issues, like whether I am my childrens' favorite parent.
Today, though, I revisited the favorite child idea after watching a piece about the "new normal" in family dynamics, which increasingly involves grandparents moving in. Yipes. Three generations under the same roof! I'm not quite certain which of my kids will one day be desperate or masochistic enough to invite me in (its not like they'll ever get a home cooked meal out of it) but I've decided I might as well hedge my bets. (It's a work in progress, but feel free to alert the media.)
Dear (Becca, Matt, Nicki -- choose one):
You are and always have been my favorite child for many reasons, not the least of which are (your sisters, your brother and sister -- choose one). Their (bitchiness, sullenness, uncommunicativeness, slovenliness, expensive tastes -- choose two or three) wear me out.
I have dreamt for years about living under one roof with you and your (beautiful wife, handsome husband -- choose one) and your (well behaved, well dressed, highly intelligent, Jewish, multi-racial -- pick up to three) children. I cannot imagine spending so much as one night under the same roof with (your sister's good-for-nothing husband, your other sister's good-for-nothing husband, your brother's gold-digging wife -- pick two) or their unruly broods. Don't tell anybody, but I will always give your children a little something extra for their birthdays. Those other nasty mutts can go to their other grandmas.
If you let me move in with you I promise I will (spend endless hours shopping with you for designer clothes, never waste time on crass materialism, supply you with enough pot so you can spend hours in a drug induced haze staring at the ceiling, learn how to drink until my toenails slosh around in their nailbeds, never vote Republican, never vote at all, experiment with all sorts of exotic food, become a vegetarian, never go on beach vacations, only go on the beach vacations, never talk about people or make faces behind their back, only talk about people or make faces behind their back -- choose up to six). I will (read David Foster Wallace stories and pretend to understand them, read Cosmo -- pick one) and I will (only go see indie films, never suggest a movie with subtitles -- pick one). I will never, under any circumstances, make you go with me to a Broadway musical.
I can't wait to start the next chapter of our life together!
Love you (the most),
Mom
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